Lydia

Sometimes we are cradled, when images are taken, memories of him clean shaven, love lights his blue trombone, black and white sepia playing, sunny evenings down the town, when I was a baby, he had this place shaking, jazzy and crazy, the moon’s dancing zone, draws pictures he’s engraving, magnolia, cotton, bones, his long notes and gait, pull at my traces, I give a twisted wave, would you know you Johns, hurrying through the rain, on a corner zebra cold, he was once great.